And stone among the stones, he returned in the joy of his heart to the truth of the motionless worlds.
— Albert Camus, from A Happy Death
, translated by William Weaver
[At this moment, when each of us must fit an arrow to his bow and enter the lists anew, to reconquer, within history and in spite of it, that which he owns already, the thin yield of his fields, the brief love of this earth, at this moment when at last a man is born, it is time to forsake our age and its adolescent furies. The bow bends; the wood complains.] At the moment of supreme tension, there will leap into flight an unswerving arrow, a shaft that is inflexible and free.
— Albert Camus, from The Rebel
And he too, perhaps more than she, since he had been born in a land without forefathers and without memory, where the annihilation of those who preceded him was still more final and where old age finds none of the solace in melancholy that it does in civilized lands, he, like a solitary and ever-shining blade of a sword, was destined to be shattered with a single blow and forever, an unalloyed passion for life confronting utter death; today he felt life, youth, people slipping away from him, without being able to hold on to any of them, left with the blind hope that this obscure force that for so many years had raised him above the daily routine, nourished him unstintingly, and had been equal to the most difficult circumstances-that, as it had with endless generosity given him reason to live, it would also give him reason to grow old and die without rebellion.
— Albert Camus, from The First Man
, translated by David Hapgood (thanks, une-medecine-pour-la-melancolie
There will be no lasting peace either in the heart of individuals or in social customs until death is outlawed.
— Albert Camus, from Reflections on the Guillotine
[But let’s not worry! It’s too late now. It will always be too late.] Fortunately!
— Albert Camus, from The Fall
, translated by Justin O’Brien
He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city.
— Albert Camus, from The Plague